Genevieve
by CSI Clue
Summary: Rescue can go both ways.
1. Chapter 1

Genevieve

_Slight stammer._

_Graceful of movement; confident in home environment. Skilled in trade as evidenced by dusty fingers, ring of keys on right hip, quill tucked behind left ear._

_Intellect, high; certainly well above average given the immediate surroundings and facile access to information._

_Physical appearance: slim, pale, possessing femininity in abundance. _

_Overall assessment: fascinating._

"G-good morning, Mr. Holmes. Your shipment has a-arrived from Glasgow," the woman murmured softly. "If you wait a moment, I will h-have them brought down."

"Thank you, Miss St. James," he replied with grave courtesy, letting his gaze sweep from her and through the shop, drinking in all the details around him. It was an interesting place; familiar, and yet with an ever-changing element of randomness that made it worthwhile to study.

Unlike a pub or a pie shop, a book seller had an unpredictable clientele, and could play host to anyone from a grubby urchin eyeing a random scrap of newspaper to a burly workman wanting a cheaply bound story collection to a full gentleman looking for some respectable tomes to dress a shelf. Literature was a great equalizer in many respects, and insured a general air of peaceful coexistence among the patrons.

Very few brawls ever started at a book seller's shop, and certainly not here at St. James Limited. The business had moved from Paternoster Row near the cathedral to Delilah Lane nearly seventy years earlier, and now stood as a small dusty bastion of knowledge in an otherwise unremarkable street, across from the Apex warehouse.

The Apex was where in fact, _several_ brawls took place in the cellars on a biweekly basis, sixpence admission, gin available.

Holmes watched as Miss St. James turned and began to mount the wrought iron staircase at one end of the counter, her slim figure moving quickly, grey skirts brushing the railing as she spiraled upwards. He was too far away to see much more than a flash of delicate boot and pale pink lace, but at the moment, that was enough.

_Genevieve St. James. Only daughter of Henry St. James PhD., deceased; proprietor and manager of St. James Limited with her uncle, William St. James._

_Social definition: spinster._

_Erotic potential: intoxicating._

He stood still drinking in all the smells and sounds around him, absorbing them like a sponge to be identified one by one. Old rich leather from bindings; dust and dry mold from aged paper; traces of tea and glue and charcoal from the tiny kitchen in the back of the shop.

Drifting in from the street: horse sweat and straw, lumber from crates and packing cases, soot from nearby chimneys, hints of rain hanging low in the overcast sky.

Footsteps overhead; the return of Miss St. James, a pair of small volumes in hand.

Outside, the sudden shadow of a cart blocking the light. Holmes took it in quickly and moved. He heard the door open, Miss St. James come down the metal staircase and begin to waver.

An arm extended, a tug and turn in a quick movement, the goose quill fluttering out of her hair. They stood crushed together against the shop wall as the workmen carried in the heavy crates behind them, moving with grunts through the narrow doorways.

Holmes murmured a soft apology for the unseemly closeness, the necessity of the moment. Miss St. James said nothing.

_Pupils wide, pulse accelerated. _

_Faint scent of rosewater, sweet breath; estimated point in catamenia: midway._

_Breasts firm and . . . uncorseted._

_Masculine physical reflexive response to proximity and pressure of said breasts: almost immediate_

Miss St. James said nothing, looking over his shoulder at some fixed point beyond the cases and workmen, but Holmes felt her draw in a deep breath, pressing against him in a reaction that was gratifying to say the least. He calculated that there were only four layers of clothing between them, possibly fewer if he didn't count his coat, which was unbuttoned and technically, not an immediate barrier.

A continued track of thinking along these lines would complicate matters still further. Holmes listened for the last of the workmen to pass behind him.

Miss St. James gave a wordless little sigh completely inappropriate for the occasion; a warmly sensual exhalation open to all manner of interpretations, and when accompanied by the press of her body against his, impossible to ignore.

Or resist.

Holmes shifted, turning his head to check on the workmen; at the same time Miss St. James lifted her chin, and the quick brush of cheek to cheek passed between them, a few seconds worth of contact.

Enough to qualify as a deliberate caress.

On both sides.

Holmes stepped back.

"I apologize for the impropriety, Miss St. James," he assured her. "However, you might have been injured and I could not stand by and see that happen."

"You are very gallant, Mr. Holmes," came her equally calm reply. "I am grateful for your . . . p-presence of mind."

He gazed into her eyes, aware that they were going to be interrupted, that the workmen would very probably need to speak to Miss St. James, and that this private moment was about to disappear like a soap bubble, but while it was here, the warm intimacy, unspoken and savored between them was sweet indeed.

Then it was gone, and Miss St. James was brushing past him, back to the counter. She gracefully scooped up the quill as well, and turned, setting the volumes on the wood, her hand caressing the topmost book. "Pearson's G-Guide to Roman Aqueducts of Sussex, and the Biography of Machiavelli b-by Cannonelle." She quoted a sum lower than Holmes was expecting, adding, "The guide is w-worn, although serviceable."

He paid her and waited until she had wrapped the books in brown paper as a precaution against the weather, and although they didn't speak again, Holmes enjoyed watching the quiet grace of her actions. She had slender hands and a gentle touch; it was easy to imagine those transposed to a very different . . . situation.

Lest his gaze give him away, Holmes turned to look where the workmen had set down the crates and were now being paid in guineas by William St. James.

"Your shipment from Normandy has made good time, I see."

Miss St. James looked up, slightly startled. A small smile crossed her face as she followed his stare to the crate. Holmes spoke in a low voice. "The crates are of spindly pine unique to the Brittany region, and further there is a port stamp with the crest of Calais on one corner. Two of the workmen sport dockworker's tattoos of crossed anchors as well."

"P-part of a private library that went for auction," Miss St. James acknowledged.

"Was there a particular emphasis to it?" he asked, turning to look at her once again.

"Possibly. Uncle m-made the selections, so I cannot say until I make out the list," She murmured. "I will keep your interests in m-mind, Mr. Holmes."

"Thank you," he nodded, and added before stepping out the door, "And please give your uncle my best wishes for a safe trip to Nottingham tonight."

He left with his books and a satisfied smile; the sight of the train ticket in William's vest pocket was brief, but enough to insure he was correct in his assertion.

It began to rain. Moving slowly, Holmes made his way back home, deliberately thinking of other things, and after climbing the stairs to his rooms, he set the books down and threw himself into one of the upholstered chairs, relaxing.

His shoulders flexed a bit, and he let his gaze turn to the window, and the thin grey drops racing down the panes there. Holmes allowed himself to consider again Miss St. James, and their moment together up against the wall of the book shop.

No words, just a sensual recollection; an impression of scent and squeeze and seduction all rushing back in a wave of arousal rolling down his stomach. He closed his eyes to focus better, sliding deeper into the memory, allowing it to hold his full attention.

Concentration gave way in a slow, relentless shift from fact to fantasy. Not how things had been, Holmes acknowledged, but how he . . . wished . . . they had gone. How standing pressed up against Genevieve St. James might have been, *should* have happened.

They should have been alone.

And Miss St. James should have given that little sigh of hers against his cheek, and he should have leaned into her, dropping his mouth on hers and taking the offered kiss. Holmes knew it would have been hot and slow, a sweet drink from a long-hidden spring of passion.

Passion was the key; he sensed that keenly. Behind her green eyes lay not only a sharp intelligence, but also a sensuality held in great restraint. It was a condition Holmes understood well; seeing it in Miss St. James made him acutely aware of his own responding in kind, a call of hunger to hunger.

And half the intrigue lay in never speaking of it.

Since it had all started with lips—her lips—Holmes found that both ironic and enthralling. He remembered clearly how it had all come about after their two years of professional and formal acquaintance. Miss St. James had been always occupied a tiny corner of his mind, discreet and interesting, but it wasn't until his match against Barrel Charlie three months ago down in the main ring of the Apex that he'd caught the inner heat of the woman.

It had been a good battle; Barrel Charlie was lighter on his feet than his belly would indicate, but drawing the fight out made the bettors put more money down, and Watson had needed the cash. A few taunting passes around the ring, a few quick jabs here and there kept the game keen.

And then she appeared with a grey cloak over her head and shoulders to keep out both the chill and the unwanted attention of the patrons. Holmes had spotted her because her graceful glide was so out of place against the rough and tumble shift of the crowd. As he watched, she moved and stopped before the red-faced William St. James who was clearly enjoying his beer and betting.

A whispered word and he grudgingly moved to go with her. Holmes remembered Miss St. James turning and catching his eye, her gaze holding his and then . . . .

Then her tongue, delicate and pink had flicked out and slowly circled the rim of her mouth, wetting it with a gleam. The hot jolt that image sent through Holmes had left him slightly breathless. No demure downward gaze this time; she held his stare with her own, and he felt the desire sear between them, blanking everyone else out.

She turned away, and Holmes tried to watch her, but Barrel Charlie had begun to swing his fists again and time started up once more around him. Since he'd already figured out his opponent's weakness it was but a few moment's work to lay him out, but by the time the fight was over and the bets accounted for, both niece and uncle were long gone from the premises, and Holmes was left with a new intrigue deep within.

Women, he decided, were unpredictable and therefore, always slightly dangerous—more so than men. The average man could be analyzed, categorized and quantified in fairly short order. Not so with the fairer sex, and therefore, it was a matter of treading lightly and watching carefully. When he next visited the St. James Limited, he kept his gaze on Miss St. James.

She said nothing, did nothing out of the ordinary. Even her slight stammer was no worse than before. It wasn't until she handed him his change that Holmes felt her finger touch the center of his palm and run down the sensitive length of his middle digit in a delicate stroke. The purposeful caress, small and yet unmistakable make him pause, but another customer jostled him, and the little moment disappeared.

It had been that way ever since.

Holmes managed by the third visit to catch her wrist and let his thumb stroke the thin skin along the inside of it; an action that sent a tiny shudder of pleasure through Miss St. James, a shudder he felt rather than saw.

And the flirting continued between them, always in the smallest gestures, unacknowledged by comment or vocalization. Holmes found it captivating to indulge in the silent interplay, and reflected on each exchange afterwards, savoring the unpredictability of the encounters.

These miniscule intimacies were enough to expand his imaginings, and Holmes found himself hosting fantasies now; mental meanderings most often visited before sleeping, when a man might indulge in a more physical response to the imagery in his thoughts.

Touching Miss St. James led to kissing Miss St. James, and then caressing, undressing and bedding Miss St. James in an endless variety of scenarios from sweet to sultry to sinister.

It was an ongoing mental seduction that occasionally shocked Holmes by its graphic nature. He'd never thought of himself as a Lothario by any means, but Miss St. James brought out a more . . . predatory side to his imagination; a streak of wanton wolfishness.

Restlessly Holmes considered himself: did he want to take advantage of this fantasy any further at the moment, or wait until after his match tonight, when a lovely distraction would keep him from dwelling too long on his aches and pains?

He generally wasn't one to put off an indulgence when on his own, but at that moment Mrs. Hudson's quick knock put an end to the choices, and Holmes ruefully rubbed the inside of his trousered thigh before rising to admit her into the rooms.


	2. Chapter 2

The match was a good one. Holmes considered his opponent with a careful glance, taking in the strengths and weaknesses of the other man in an instance, cataloging them for consideration.

Dolhan was a fishmonger, used to rolling heavy carts up and down the docks and his muscles stood out in thick ropes along his arms. His legs were powerful too, heavy and sturdy.

Holmes knew it would take a consistent application of careful strikes to tire the man out and open him to more powerful blows.

It would be a long battle, he realized, but one of enormous financial potential, and at the moment, that was a primary factor.

He took a minute to center himself, and stepped out onto the dirt floor of the warehouse, keeping an eye on Dolhan.

Three rounds into it, Holmes knew he might possibly have to dip into the stores of medical supplies Watson had left behind. Dolhan was quicker than his bulk implied and had landed a few blows that were already beginning to ache.

Still, he was confident of a win. The rain had made the floor muddy, and Dolhan wasn't as sure-footed against the slippery muck. Holmes began to speed up his attack when a sound echoed through the warehouse, pulling everyone's attention from the match. Holmes glanced up and jerked back as part of a ceiling support beam gave another ominous creak and began to fall, bringing a wet deluge and heavy chunks of plaster and wood down on everyone below. Within seconds the boxing ring was in ruins, and the screams of the wounded carried over the torrent of water and splashes.

Within a minute at most, things were difficult to remember. Holmes knew he'd been struck a blow along the side of his head; a blow from a twisting section of beam that was strong enough to nearly knock him out. He remembered staggering, and clinging to the rail before making his way through the screaming throng to a wall.

After that, matters were even hazier. Holmes knew someone was speaking to him and tugging him up the loading ramp, urging him along when the last thing he wanted to do was to move.

More rain, shockingly cold, was soaking him down to the skin, and crowds in the street yelling and jostling as they tried to rescue the trapped and maimed. Holmes knew his nose was bleeding, and his vision blurred in and out. He also knew whoever it was helping him wasn't Watson.

For a long while his focus wavered, and the capacity to stay conscious gradually faded even as Holmes fought to remain awake.

*** *** ***

He awoke gradually, keeping his eyes shut as he let sounds filter through for identification.

_Susurration of the rain outside in a steady, soft hum._

_The occasional gust of wind rattling against a closed window._

_The tick of . . . a clock_, he realized, slow and ponderous.

There was no such clock in his rooms, Holmes knew. So he was somewhere other than home. The coverlets over him were thick, cocooning him as he lay on his side.

_Arm._

_Around his waist, small; not masculine, then. A woman._

_The scent of old leather . . . . and paper._

He knew then, the who, and the where of his situation and oddly, there was no shock, only a rising fascination stirring through him now. The slow surge of dreamy interest grew, partially intellectual and under that, definitely a physical reflex. Holmes understood he was injured, but his body refused to take anything above his waist into consideration, and hormones combined with lust aroused him further.

Carefully he slid his broad hand along the arm, expecting to encounter lace, and not finding any; the skin was soft, warm and smooth, layered over lean muscle. Holmes shifted, trying to keep from waking the sleeper at his back, while at the same time, allowing his senses free reign.

_Bare flesh--_

That was as far as he got before a hot pang of desire surged through him, blatant and demanding. Holmes bit back a groan, fighting it down muzzily, aware that his perceptions were affected by more than mere sleepiness.

Still, the soft heat of bare breasts against his own naked spine made him clench his teeth against his own carnal urges. This was madness; he'd barely touched the woman in the last four months, and the flirtation they'd maintained was discreet and silent for the most part. Now he was in a bed with her, somewhere within the depths of the store by the faint scent of damp, and . . . and . . .

The arm along his waist was moving, the hand slowly sliding up his flank and across his chest, warm palm splaying against his ribs. A definite touch, firm and deliberate, without hesitation. Holmes debated on pretending to settle back into sleep, just to observe what Miss St. James would do.

Her sigh, soft and hot against his ear made self-control impossible; Holmes drew in a breath as her fingers brushed through the fur of his chest and tickled one hard nipple, sending a pleasurable shock through him. Holmes tensed, and faintly under it all he despaired at ever mastering his lust. It was the one aspect of himself that no amount of discipline could ever quite conquer, and although he could keep it at bay for remarkable periods of time, it was never quite completely under his control.

A failing . . . and he let the thought go when the hand glided to the middle of his chest, and a whisper drifted into his ear. "M-Mister Holmes. You are awake?"

Bluffing would not be possible, he realized. Not at this point, with his pulse accelerating and his breathing slightly ragged. "I am, Miss Saint James. Although I am also . . . confused."

"Little wonder. Y-you were hit quite hard and required a small d-dose of laudanum, sir," came the low voice. As she spoke, Holmes shivered as a rush of pleasure tingled through his ear, spiraling down his spine.

"Ohhh," he managed, his voice sliding into a lower register. Her words not only explained his altered perceptions, but also his inability to concentrate on more . . . cerebral matters. "So I am . . . drugged."

"Not excessively," the whisper reassured him. "The Apothecary Guide s-suggested half a teaspoon for head injuries, but I only g-gave you a quarter. Are you in p-pain?" As she spoke, her hand moved once more along his stomach, her touch a damnably sweet tease along his skin.

"I am not feeling any pain," he replied in a low, slow voice. "Most assuredly not."

"I am glad to hear it."

A pause. Holmes lay torn between wanting to ask further questions, and waiting for her hand to shift again, the anticipation making him . . . throb.

Her hand moved, fingers brushing his navel now, brushing it lightly. Holmes struggled not to move; he lay still, luxuriating in the caress, dimly admitting to himself it had been a long, long time since he'd last been touched in such a way.

Not just erotically, but . . . tenderly. With care and concern as well as sensuality.

"You have . . . . gentle hands," Holmes heard himself mumble.

Miss St. James shifted closer and he felt her smile pressed against his shoulder. "Th-thank you."

"Not that I wish you to stop . . ." he went on slowly, "but precisely . . . how . . . did we arrive at our current situation?"

"You were struck by a f-falling beam at the Apex. I assisted you here and g-gave you aid," came her quite murmur. "Since there is n-no fireplace here, the most prudent method of keeping warm is proximity."

Holmes nodded; it was indeed logical that a shop full of paper would prudently avoid open flames, and further, that warmth generated by body heat would be an effective alternative.

"Commendable. I thank you for your . . . care," he murmured gently. Her fingers lightly toyed with the velvety fur trailing in a silky stripe under his navel, and Holmes found it increasingly difficult to focus on conversation.

Miss St. James said nothing, leaving him caught between embarrassment and arousal, not sure exactly how to proceed . . . on any level. He didn't want her to stop touching him, or in fact, cuddling him, which was more precisely what she was doing.

"Mr. Holmes, I r-realize I have you at a slight disadvantage here," she murmured. "M-my intention is not to seduce you, but to o-offer you the opportunity to indulge in me, s-should that appeal to you."

"How . . . graciously generous," Holmes replied, swallowing hard. This wasn't what he expected at all, and yet the lusciously naughty potential of it made him stiffen further. "Very . . . . hospitable."

"Should you p-prefer simply to sleep, I will understand, of course."

"So you are saying," Holmes slowly strove for clarity, "that although we are in horizontal propinquity— and without garments, I perceive—I am still in command of a choice?"

"Absolutely," Miss St. James whispered.

Holmes digested this, and even as he did so, he slid his hand over that of Miss St. James in a slow caress. "How . . . intriguing."

"Please consider it a u-unique offer, possible only because of our fortuitous c-circumstances this evening," Miss St. James assured him. "Had the accident n-not given me opportunity to assist you, our current situation w-would most likely never have come about."

"To what benefit?" Holmes persisted quietly, his words polite but curious. "Given our past history of understated and miniscule flirtations, this . . . considerable advancement requires explanation, Miss St. James."

She said nothing for a moment, and made to pull her hand back, but Holmes had it trapped under his and held it against his stomach, not wanting it gone. Miss St. James relaxed, and spoke again, each breath caressing his ear. "It may n-not have escaped your notice that I am w-without suitors, Mr. Holmes. Th-this is because my uncle prefers me not to wed. The sh-shop is in my name, not his, and sh-should I marry, I would have the right to turn him out."

"You would never do anything so . . . unkind," Holmes retorted, shifting a little. The feel of her nude form pressing against his back was delicious now.

"I w-would not, no. But uncle finds it easier to k-keep gentlemen from me, and now I have few options for my future. S-since I am to be a spinster, I wish to experience c-coitus at least *once* in my lifetime. You are unattached, and a g-gentleman in every sense of the word, Mr. Holmes. F-further, I suspect you are experienced in m-matters relating to the boudoir and . . ."

Holmes listened to this all with surprise and a faint flush of embarrassment. He turned his head to look at Miss St. James from the corner of his eye. "And?" came his prompt.

"And you are k-kind. You have never once made jest of my sp-speech or person. That may seem a small matter to you, b-but it means a great deal to me."

This startled and humbled Holmes somewhat; he'd never thought of himself as kind, but in fairness, he'd never thought of Miss St. James as handicapped either. Her criteria made him thoughtful, and then one point rose up and he rolled over onto his back.

Miss St. James shifted to lie against his side, and this new position brought far more of her against him; a situation fraught with sensual temptation. Her hand was still on his stomach, and Holmes kept it trapped there with his own, lest it wander.

"So you are . . . an innocent." He stared at the ceiling.

"Physically, yes."

"But not---?"

"Mr. Holmes, I work in a bookshop; I'm w-well aware of what literature my uncle b-buys and sells in the back room," Miss St. James whispered, her voice smiling. "I d-daresay I have read more erotica than any other w-woman in London."

"Really?" Holmes was startled, but not entirely surprised. It made sense that an intelligence this keen would take advantage of the surroundings, and reap the benefits of the same. "Very . . . enterprising of you."

"Knowledge is important," Miss St. James agreed. "However, I do not wish you to feel c-coerced into this in any w-way."

He considered the matter, and a myriad of responses came to mind, but foremost in his estimation was the honor of being chosen. To be trusted with such a deed was definitely a matter of respect and pride; Holmes found himself indeed touched to be offered this sensual endeavor.

And there was the worry that if he turned her down--even gently, parting as friends--that Miss St. James might chose someone else, and *that* was not acceptable. Holmes suppressed an inner growl at the thought of any other man being less than gentle with Miss St. James in what should be an act of mutual passion.

_That was not the way to experience an event so important,_ and in that thought the matter was decided. Carefully Holmes lifted her hand, sliding it up from under the coverlet to his lips, where he kissed it lightly.

"I amat your service," he told her in a husky voice, "With a few provisos of course."

He felt her tremble against him; a nice sensation. "Th-thank you. And those would b-be?"

"First of all, in a setting this private, I would prefer to call you by your first name."

"I would like that very m-much," came her reply. "And would like to use yours as w-well."

"Thank you. And secondly, loathe though I am to bring the issue up, there is the matter of conception, which is always a possibility in matters of intimate congress."

"I am . . . p-prepared," Miss St. James replied forthrightly, surprising him once more. "I have read Burton's _Perfumed Garden_ thoroughly and have taken the precautions practiced therein, vis-à-vis half a pulped lemon as a cervical cap."

Holmes blinked, and turned to look at her; his expression caught between admiration and exasperation. "You never fail to astound me, Miss St. James."

She blinked uncertainly, biting her lip for a moment, and Holmes continued, his tone gentler. "I meant that in the most commendable way, of course; not only does it show foresight and prudence, but a degree of practicality that I find as appealing as the rest of you."

Holmes kissed her hand again to emphasize his point, and although he couldn't see her clearly, he sensed Miss St. James was blushing.

"Thank you," she murmured. "I know it w-was presumptuous of me, b-but it seemed wise."

Holmes nodded, and moved to slide his arm around her shoulders, settling her against him more firmly. The lazy kiss of skin to skin under the coverlet created a blend of comfort and carnality that he enjoyed.

Carefully, he brushed his lips along her temple, intrigued by her hair, which smelt of rosewater. "And on the matter of presumption, I return the question to you, Genevieve. Are you sure about this?"

In answer, she shifted and pressed her mouth to his bristly chin, nipping it lightly. The caress was deliberate; a clear and playful answer to his serious question, and Holmes smiled.

"Very well," he sighed. "We shall begin with kissing."


	3. Chapter 3

Holmes was aware that skill came from two starting points: discipline and natural talent. Application of the former often overcame lack of the latter, and there were skills that he himself had honed through sheer persistence, like chemistry.

Other skills welled up from a spring of intuition and innate understanding. His music lessons had been like that; effortless as the notes spun out from his violin with graceful precision.

When it came to kissing, Miss St. James had the latter, most definitely. Her natural gift of sly tongue and soft suction were enough to leave him gasping, and when accompanied by little sighs and moans made Holmes ache. It didn't hurt matters either that her enthusiasm held a charm of its own too; that eagerness further fueled his own, and Holmes responded to it in kind.

Certainly it was a slow and delicious thrill to explore the many contours and textures of the woman. Holmes had often wondered what Miss St. James was like under her crinolines and silks, and now, with only the meager covering of a sheet over the two of them, the lush thrill of exploring her bare, warm skin mesmerized his senses.

She was slender, but graced with a fullness at her hips, and gentle curves of breasts that fit his hands nicely. Holmes let his touch skim along her ribcage as he kissed her, drinking in the sensations and savoring them fully. He was grateful for the laudanum now; it curbed his own physical urgency, and with that small boost of control, Holmes concentrated more fully on the woman half under him.

The small pink buds of her nipples seemed highly sensitive, and he toyed with them lightly, making her quiver with each small rub of his fingers. "You seem to enjoy this," Holmes murmured thoughtfully.

"It . . . sends shivers through me," Miss St. James admitted. "M-more so than when I do it m-myself."

The image flashed into Holmes' mind, bringing an urgent pang of desire with it. Miss St. James caressing herself was something he hadn't thought of before, but now it burned brightly in his mind.

"I should like to see that," he admitted in a husky croak. "Truly."

She shook her head, eyes bright. "L-later, perhaps? At the m-moment I am too . . ." She trailed off delicately, and Holmes smiled, understanding her meaning completely.

"Later," he murmured, intending to keep her to that promise. Holmes dropped his head and nuzzled the closest breast, breathing in the light, sweet musk of her skin. It delighted him to see how pebbled it was; a clear sign of her arousal. With deliberate slowness, he kissed the underside, working his way towards the nipple, feeling warm delight in her shudders.

It dawned on Holmes that delight was indeed the most fitting of terms. He was hungry for the woman, certainly and aroused and focused, but over it all lay a sense of pleasure not solely associated with the intimacy of sexual congress. There was a shared sense of respect and joy to the process. This wasn't a sensation he'd ever had before, and Holmes wondered if it came forth more readily because of the laudanum.

But that was too complicated a line of thinking, and he pressed his mouth to the sweet little rivet of nipple instead, giving himself over to sensation over reason. Under him, Miss St. James gave a sweet little gasp and slid her arms around him tightly. This was no hardship, since it cradled him nicely against her breast, and he suckled, hard.

She bucked, and Holmes softened his mouth, then repeated his action, and this time Miss St. James cried out again, her voice breathless with passion. Holmes carefully pressed down on her, feeling one of her thighs wrap around his hip, and that brought the wet press of sex against his thigh.

Nearly too much. He raised his head and kissed the underside of her long throat, chuffing a little as she ground against him, eyes closed.

"This is . . . almost too much to b-bear," Miss St. James groaned, "So very, very good—"

"Ohyesss," Holmes managed, fighting not to lose control. He shifted his thigh, and the light friction was enough—more than enough—to cause Miss. St. James to reach her ultimate moment.

Holmes held her as she shuddered hard, leg wrapping tightly around him, and when she sighed and slumped back moments later, he shifted higher and kissed her damp forehead all the way down her nose before smiling at her.

She lay back on the pillows, flushed and dazed, her lips parted as she smiled. "I am . . a-astounded."

"You are particularly beautiful in this moment," Holmes replied quietly. "Although I assume it is not the first time that you've enjoyed la petite mort."

Miss. St. James pinkened, but gave a small nod. "T-true,"

"All the better," Holmes murmured, bending to kiss her neck. "It means that you're aware of your own appetites which in turn will aid me in accommodating them accordingly."

"B-but your_ own_ needs . . ." Miss St. James protested gently, "S-surely we should . . ."

"I appreciate your concern, but for the moment, I much prefer indulging in you. As a guest it's my prerogative, as I'm sure you understand," Holmes murmured, sliding himself down the length of her body, and punctuating his sentences with kisses down her ribs and stomach.

Miss St. James gave a little wriggle. "Ummmmhhhh . . ."

"Now, now . . ." Holmes chided sweetly, "Well begun is half done."

Quick impressions now, with more relayed by touch and scent over sight. Holmes let the sheet drape over his head as he nuzzled his way down one smooth thigh. Miss St. James reached for him, one hand uncertainly stroking his head and Holmes let her, even as he lightly rubbed his chin along her skin. He knew his beard stubble would tickle, and that would provoke more responses from her.

He turned his kisses towards the insides of her legs and Miss St. James gave way to his insistently gentle kisses, her knees parting demurely for him. Holmes settled his torso between them, spending time licking the oh-so-sensitive insides of her knees.

_Perfume—rosewater, recently applied._

_Arousal rising; pulse increasing._

_Potential for second orgasm: near certainty._

Holmes carefully pushed her knees wider, taking time to mouth along the slender hollow on the inside of one long thigh before brushing his lips across the damp tangles of Miss St. James' sex.

The sweet musky bouquet there enthralled Holmes and he savored the warm and lush temptation before him now. Delicately, he flicked his tongue along her slick cleft and was rewarded when Ms. St. James moaned. She tried to close her legs, but he kept the lean width of his shoulders between them and with deliberation, pressed a kiss upon her.

Dimly Holmes heard her soft cries and groans; they were muffled by the sheet and her damp thighs as he tenderly nibbled and licked, his hands curling around each cheek of her derriere for a better grip. This particular aspect of intimacy was uniquely arousing for him; an opportunity to forgo higher thought and simply respond as a male animal. His own excitement was becoming critical, and the friction against the sheets wasn't helping matters, but Holmes kept his focus on the succulence of Miss St. James.

She was delicious, and Holmes drew out the tease of bringing her to the edge more than once, but when Miss St. James wrapped her slender fingers through his hair and tugged in exasperation, he relented and began the slow suckling that he knew would bring her fulfillment.

After a few heated moments it did, spectacularly, and Holmes congratulated himself when he heard her give a musical keen that echoed throughout the bedchamber. After giving each moist inner thigh a last affectionate kiss, he crawled up the length of her body and dropped himself at her side, studying her carefully. Miss St. James lay limper than before, a languid length of pale, sleek satisfaction.

She looked rather like an exotic pale cat stretched out in a patch of sunshine, and Holmes smiled at her. "I trust that was . . . satisfactory?"

Miss St. James purred. "How oft I have r-read of gamahuching, and never, never in my most exotic dreams thought it could be s-so exhilarating!"

"The activity has great merit," Holmes agreed with a pleased sigh, "and provides nearly as much pleasure to the performer as to the recipient, yes."

Miss St. James propped herself up on one elbow and looked at him inquiringly, her dark hair spilling loose around her shoulders. "Truly?"

"Truly," Holmes assured her.

She leaned over to kiss him then, and let one hand slide down his chest, her touch light and curious. Breaking the kiss, she murmured, "S-shall I . . ?"

"Regrettably, I must defer," Holmes rumbled. "Your own rather glorious crescendos have left me in a state of urgency that would not last long under any kiss you may impart along those lines."

"Ah," Miss St. James nodded demurely. "T-then by all means, let us p-proceed."

"There is still time to change your mind," Holmes felt compelled to confess, "And no obligation to recip—"

He didn't get any further; Miss St. James cupped one cool hand around the side of his neck, drawing him down to her again, and her kiss was as welcoming and sweet as ever. Holmes gave up any further attempt at nobility and drank it in, chasing her tongue with his, tasting her lips with his own, and by the time he pulled away for a quick breath, he found himself pinning her down.

"I am not," Miss. St. James told him softly, "a-afraid. After all of the pleasure y-you've given me, I am ready."

Holmes let his glance move from her flushed face down to her breasts, where she clutched the sheet nervously. He plucked the edge of it away and lightly flung it back revealing the both of them in the dim light of the bedchamber.

"You are so very lovely," he told her with quiet honesty. "From the sweetness of your very character all the way to the edges of your corporal form, and I am humbled and honored to be able to bring you joy."

She blushed, then, and it was a delight to see the flush of color moving down her cheeks and across her throat. Holmes took that as a good sign and shifted himself to his knees between hers. Miss St. James looked down and gave a squeaky little gasp, and suddenly _he _was the one feeling the heat rise from his face.

"Ohhhhhh . . . ." she whispered and the awe in her tone made him grit his teeth as the member in consideration swelled a bit at the praise.

"Later, when matters are not so . . . critical, you are welcome to a closer examination," Holmes rapidly assured her, trying desperately to keep himself from expending, "but for the moment—"

Innocent though she was, Miss St. James seemed to instinctively understand. She lightly shifted her knees up, and Holmes loomed over her, pulling one of the pillows behind her shoulders to prop her up. Her dark hair cascaded down over her shoulders, and she reached to curl her hands on his shoulders. "I . . ."

Gently Holmes pressed a pair of fingers along the slick seam of her sex and parted it, gliding deeper, then stroked gently for a moment, allowing her a chance to feel the sensation. He was glad of her previous spending, which would make the entry easier on them both. Miss St. James squeaked again; a sound that charmed and aroused him further.

"I will proceed as slowly as I can," he whispered hoarsely, "Although our intimacy may not be as prolonged as I am generally capable of."

"It will be glorious," Miss St. James assured him, drawing his face to hers and kissing him. A moment later, Holmes pushed gently and barely breeched her, then held still, taut as a bowstring, every lean muscle quivering.

"Unnnnnghhhhh . . ." she groaned, and her hands gripped his shoulders more tightly.

It was the perfect sound to make, and Holmes held himself still, lost in the slick, slick squeeze of that darling dark-furred cleft. Then he grunted, bracing his forearms along the mattress and finally pushed forward another inch with delicate slowness.

Miss St. James, however, was done with anything gentlemanly, and turned to nip his earlobe as she pushed herself up against him in one voluptuous thrust. "Yesssss--!"

Holmes growled. He thrust back, his body's need betrayed in the hard rhythm that caught between them. Miss St. James clung to him, hands shifting their grip to his hips, pulling him deeper.

He thought he would go mad with the pleasure. The clench around his organ was hotter than Hades and as smooth as butter; Holmes fought to savor this uniquely beautiful moment when lust and profound admiration surged through him, searing some tender corner in his heart.

Miss St. James gasped, and this time Holmes felt the pulsing squeeze of her climax. He could hold back no longer and joined her as he drove ever deeper inside, lost, blind and shuddering with a pleasure so rich it robbed him of conscious thought.

They lay quiet, still joined.

Holmes had rolled to his back and brought Miss St. James to lie against his chest, content in the sweet slight weight of her on him. This was an indulgence, this afterglow. He could feel the stickiness of their spending, caught the faint coppery scent of her maiden's blood and he relished it. Time enough to rise and wash; these few moments were theirs alone.

"Are you . . . well?" he finally ventured.

Miss St. James gave a deep, contented sigh. "I am. A little s-sore, but nothing I cannot bear. Thank you."

"No, I must thank _you _my dear for this rare and lovely privilege," he murmured softly against her temple. "I am honored."

"As am I," she replied sleepily. "Y-your head—do you need more laudanum?"

"Not at all," Holmes assured her. "Let us . . . rest . . ."

*** *** ***

The dim light woke him this time, and Holmes opened his eyes quickly.

_Hooves outside—the morning milk run. Between five and six o'clock, then._

_Genevieve—_

"Good m-morning," came her soft voice, and Holmes looked up to see her seated before a vanity table, twisting her hair into the soft chignon she usually wore.

She was fully dressed, he noted with inner disappointment.

"Good morning," Holmes responded uncertainly. The sheets around him still held the lovely sensual perfume of the night, but he lay alone in the bed now. Miss St. James glided over and sat on the edge, reaching a hand out to cup his bristly cheek.

"T-today is Sunday," she murmured softly. "My uncle is d-due back on Wednesday. If you d-do not have any pressing engagements, I would be d-delighted to have your company for b-breakfast and . . .afterwards."

Holmes looked up at her, nothing that although she spoke the words lightly, there was a wary look in her fine eyes; a look that needed to be erased immediately. He took her hand and kissed the knuckles, then turned it and kissed her palm.

"Breakfast," he echoed firmly, "_And_ afterwards, yes. There is still so very much to . . . learn."

"T-there is," Miss St. James agreed. She smiled then, and her shy expression held a new, secret beauty.

"And," Holmes went on, pulling her into his arms, whispering against her lips, "I certainly hope to learn as much as I can from you."

"But I d-don't know _anything_!" she protested sweetly, rubbing her nose against his.

"Yes you do," Holmes assured her. "You know how to save a man's soul, and that a very good starting place, Genevieve."

She looked startled, then smug, but he kissed her long and hard as the morning bells began to ring, bringing on the day.

end


End file.
